Many question what love is, if you can love and whether there is such a thing. I find that ridiculous and frankly stupid. The only soul I know to never have had love is Tom Riddle and a fantasy character is nothing to go by.
I hear my sister say “Oh I love it! Oh, I love it so much, I’ve never loved anything more!” Now being the 16 year old self involved child she is still stuck in her pre-teen drama queen phase, I should let her off for such blasphemy whilst talking about a pair of shoes or her new set of gel nails. But of course, the snobby, constantly wanting to be right side of me just can’t resist the bait.
“You’ve never loved anything more than that lot of leather and wood that you’re just going to wear out and leave in a wardrobe of years?” My retort receives rolling eyes and a look of ‘death’ as I begin to enter her room, ending up hovering around the doorframe. “Not really the way you should treat something you love Emily, is it? Other wise I’d wear Adam and yourself on my feet until I needed a new pair of loved ones.”
You should know at this point, Adam, by label, is my boyfriend of nine months and a perfectly handsome, loving butt face; couldn’t find better as things come.
“No Charlotte, but you can love things in different ways. Don’t be a poo. You love books. Get out of my room, close the door too.
She turns back to her friend on Skype.
“Not in your room, I suppose I love you more than any John Green book,” She looks up at me with a face of ingratitude at my remark and turning back to her computer I say “and you really must know I will always love you more than the bible. Or the Twilight Series in that matter.”
After sitting back down in my pre-smartie pants Charlotte pose, I still couldn’t get the idea of love out of my mind. The word is thrown around so casually, “I love it, I love you, I’ll never love anyone or anything quite like the way I love you/it,” and it made me wonder when you really like something and when do you begin to treasure it, cherish it.
My mum said she loved me when I was born, as did my dad. I was dependent on that love. I need boobs and nappies; I had no choice but to love them. When Emily and Jack came along, I hated them at first, poking them, prodding them. Who did they think they were? Emily cried all the time and woke me up from precious sleep after days running around pretending I was an explorer and Jack bite me every time I cuddled him.
And then I had an array of primary school romances, where we giggled if you “snogged” them or laughed hysterically if you held hands. We all thought we loved each other but it was just silliness.
Friends love you, you say you do and close friends share a bond. I have a few friends I will never forget and a few, from the past that I want to. But with that in mind love is fleeting sometimes and a love for a friend can leave just as quickly as it goes.
Then we get a dog, Thistle. I love her, I know I do, but god she smells. And not just a little bit, believe you me. But I don’t love her any less. Now she’s older and slower I know she depends on us to look after her and we do because it’s a mutual love of a pet and an owner.
We have a few boys here and there whom I said I loved and one I genuinely thought I did around a year and a half ago but you realize that’s not love. Infatuation in a whole other thing.
And then we have Adam. I know I love him. But then I have an easily falling heart, I love someone very quickly. But I remember very clearly the first time we said I love you to each other. Very surreal, we were in the dark on Valentines day, I was wearing my bike safety gear as was he and it was sweet.
With that in mind, I think love is like a chocolate mousse. Sometime you regret investing into it because it’s just not what you expected and there are certain times you find that the brand of mousse you like isn’t there anymore so you have to go searching again. but sometimes you find the best, most more-ish and wonderful little mouse cartons and you enjoy indulging in them. Who cares if they’re value or finest range, they’re yours and you love them.